


Friendship is Magic*

by cnaught



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Coming Out, I'm sorry for the title but it makes me giggle, Otabek has other friends, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Yuri Plisetsky-centric, Yuri has emotional problems, absolutely no ponies involved in any way, awkward early friendship, conversations between people who can't communicate, feels weird to not tag Otayuri, in my head it's like pre-pre-pre-slash, possibly ace/aro spectrum Yuri, the unrealized spectre of homophobia, this was supposed to be humor but I'm not sure what it actually is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-02 03:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15788064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnaught/pseuds/cnaught
Summary: *i.e. it's a mysterious force that Yuri does not comprehenda.k.a. Otabek has other friends, and Yuri doesn't know how to deal.When someone behind them calls out “Otabek!” Yuri whips around with a snarl, ready to tell whoever it is to leave his friend the hell alone — and stops. Because Otabek has turned too, and the side of his mouth is curled fractionally into one of his subtle but genuine smiles, and something pulls sharp and hard in Yuri’s chest because he has never seen Otabek smile like that at someone else.





	1. Leo

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be the first Worlds post-canon, based on the 2016 ISU calendar.

Boston (Worlds) — March

Yuri is tugging his friend across the hotel lobby, because Otabek had said that they’d make time to go see the city or something when they were in the same place again and Yuri is _tired_ of waiting, he has been waiting for _months_ to hang out with Otabek again, so they are going _now_ god _damnit_. And Otabek is letting himself be tugged —with those legs, if he didn’t want to move Yuri couldn’t force him — so Yuri thinks maybe he’s been looking forward to it too, a little.

So when someone behind them calls out “Otabek!” Yuri whips around with a snarl, ready to tell whoever it is to leave his friend the hell alone — and stops. Because Otabek has turned too, and the side of his mouth is curled fractionally into one of his subtle but genuine smiles, and something pulls sharp and hard in Yuri’s chest because he has never seen Otabek smile like that at someone else.

“Hey,” Otabek says to the lanky stranger who bounds up and pulls him into a hug. A hug which Otabek does not reciprocate, but doesn’t really seem to mind, either. “Missed you at Four Continents,” he continues, as if the weird one-sided hug hadn’t just happened, as if Yuri’s entire world was not shaken on its axis right now. “How’s the knee?”

“Better.” The guy grins, quick and easy. Warm brown hair just brushes his jaw. “It’s good. You’ll see!”

“Right.” Otabek lets the challenging tone roll right past him, and turns to Yuri, who thinks maybe he’s fallen through a wormhole into another dimension. “Yuri, do you know Leo?”

“Uh.” Parts of his brain aren’t working. It’s like that time Georgi skated straight into the boards and almost gave himself a concussion. Yuri had laughed himself sick at Georgi’s expense, so this is probably karma.

“We’ve talked.” The stranger smiles at him, thrusts out a hand. As if in a dream, Yuri grasps it. They shake vigorously. “Nice to meet you for real, Plisetsky!”

His misfiring brain starts to catch up. Leo. De La Iglesia. American. Right. Yuri remembers his voice on the phone, warm congratulations that he hadn’t felt he deserved. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You too.”

Yuri withdraws his hand. He still feels a little bit like he’s drowning. Otabek glances between the two of them with an unreadable expression. Leo continues to smile for no reason.

Drowning, choking. “So uh,” he spits out, before Otabek can ask what the hell is wrong with him. “How do you two, uh. Know each other?”

Leo smiles even brighter. “We trained together as juniors.”

Otabek speaks slowly, choosing his words with care. “For the first … month I was in America,” he says, “Leo was about the only person I talked to, besides coach.”

“If you call it talking,” Leo snickers. He juts out his chin, furrows his brow, and grunts, in a crude but not wholly inaccurate impression.

“Fuck off,” Otabek grumbles. There’s something a little tense about him, not anger but — is he embarrassed? Is that even possible? “My English wasn’t very good yet,” he explains to Yuri.

“Oh, has it gotten better?” Leo quips.

“Actually fuck off,” Otabek growls. Leo laughs. “Where’s Guang Hong?”

“He just got in.” Something goes softer and warmer in the edges of Leo’s smile. “We were about to go get some food, if you guys want to…?”

Guang Hong. Chinese. Yuri remembers him, vaguely. Soft blush, mediocre presentation score. Not prime competition, this season at least.

“Yuri?” Otabek is looking at him. Oh shit fuck. He’s supposed to decide?

He doesn’t really want to have dinner with Leo and Guang Hong. He’s not sure he wants to have dinner with Otabek. He kind of wants to find a nice quiet corner to sit in and readjust his entire understanding of the world into a place where it somehow makes sense that intensely cool, imperturbable Otabek can be the butt of jokes told by a grinning American with freaky thick eyebrows. But retreat isn’t the right answer. For fuck’s sake, he isn’t Katsudon.

These people are Otabek’s _friends._ Otabek has _other friends._

Something like a spark of competitive spirit blooms in the depths of his confusion.

“Yeah, sure, if you want,” he mumbles. Otabek smiles — just a little, but enough.

“Pick something that doesn’t suck,” Otabek tells Leo. “American food is terrible,” he says to Yuri.

“Says the guy who eats horse meat!” Leo protests.

“Horse meat is good.” Otabek is outwardly tranquil, the _“fight me”_ only implied.

 

Yuri gets through dinner by not saying much, just scowls and one-word answers and pushing food around his plate. Otabek tries a few times to invite him into the conversation, but Yuri doesn’t feel like he can let his guard down around these strangers and eventually Otabek seems to pick up on it and let him be. Just once Guang Hong says something about how _wonderful_ it will be to skate against _Viktor Nikiforov_ and Yuri snarls out two sentences of an honest opinion; other than that he keeps a lid on it, thinking of Lilia’s demanding instruction on poise and dignity and not clawing people’s eyes out even when they _smile all the time and it’s fucking weird._

After they see the other two into a cab — it’s not far to the hotel, but Guang Hong is jet lagged to hell and had begged Leo to not make him walk — Yuri almost feels like he can breathe easy again. Except Otabek’s eyes are on him like lead weights. Yuri scowls at him. “What.”

Otabek doesn’t say anything for a while, just keeps watching him in that unnerving, steady way. “You were quiet,” he says, finally.

There’s nothing accusatory in his tone, just observation. Yuri bristles regardless. “They’re your _friends_. Was I supposed to scream and curse?” He turns and starts walking back toward the hotel.

He knows that any normal human being would say something like, “hey Yuri, you’re being super fucking weird about this, what exactly is your problem?” Since it’s Otabek, instead it’s just something tight between his eyebrows, dark-eyed glances that set Yuri’s teeth on edge for two agonizing blocks until he tilts his head and asks softly, “Yuri, are you okay?” and the thing between his brows resolves itself in Yuri’s view: not annoyance, but concern.

What can he say? “It’s freaking me out that you have other friends, because I don’t, and I thought we were the same”? “Seeing you smile at somebody else kind of made me feel like the world was ending”? Yuri doesn’t know a lot about friendship, but he’s pretty sure you can’t just say that to a guy.

“Fine,” he growls, feeling like a fucking idiot because he can’t explain what’s going on in his own head. “Just, I don’t know.” Otabek is looking at him, inexorable. “I guess I just… didn’t know you guys were that close, or whatever.”

Here again, a normal human would say, “why is that a problem for you, Plisetsky? Am I not allowed to have other friends? Who the fuck do you think you are?” Otabek _hm_ s and looks solemn. No matter the stupid shit Yuri spouts, Otabek always takes him seriously.

“I don’t know if we’re close,” Otabek says slowly. He’s so careful with words, it makes those occasional unlikely pronouncements like _you had the eyes of a soldier_ that much more startling. “He’s a good guy. He was kind to me at a time that I needed it.”

“As a shy foreigner with bad English?” Otabek talks about training abroad so casually, Yuri has never considered it beyond a footnote to who he is now; he hasn’t stopped to really imagine it, actual years in various places so far from home. Learning new languages, switching rinks and coaches — it must have been disorienting, and lonely.

Otabek says “Yeah,” in a timbre that makes it clear that that’s not all. He rolls his shoulders back one at a time. “That was also the summer I realized I’m queer. Kind of panicked about it for a while.”

Speaking of things Yuri’s never considered. He stops walking. Otabek mirrors him, a pace and a half ahead. _“What.”_

The street light is behind Otabek, gilding the edges of his silhouette, as if he needs to be any more fucking inscrutable. “It’s not really talked about, at home.” His voice, low and smooth, sounds like he always does. He could be talking about the weather. “There was some culture shock. Leo was already out, he helped me through it.” The light glances across that thing stuck in his eyebrows. “Okay?” sounds a bit like a challenge.

Yuri is not okay. Yuri is frantically readjusting his worldview, again. And trying to quell the weird gut-punch feeling that’s pushing at his ribs, before it expresses itself in some horrifying way like shouting or tears. After too long, he chokes out, “You didn’t tell me,” and immediately hates how it sounded, like a petulant child.

The tension between Otabek’s eyebrows has taken over his whole face, seeped down into his shoulders, before he responds. “I didn’t think you would care,” he says, quiet and terse. More terse than usual, which is not a low standard. He turns abruptly, starts walking again.

The _fuck. He’s_ upset? Yuri rushes to catch up. He wants to say something like “of course I care that some idiot American knew this huge thing about you before I did, I thought we were friends, what the _fuck,”_ but this is the first time Otabek has been upset with him and Yuri doesn’t know how to handle it. The shit Yuri does that pisses other people off — his moods, his insults and demands and all-around bad attitude — has always seemed to roll off Otabek like water. Even when Yuri’d gotten them both kicked out of that club in Barcelona Otabek had just been bemused and curious.

Yuri hasn’t figured out what to do, what to say — his options are degrading fast, panic rising in whispers, _you fucked it up, of course you fucked it up, no one can put up with your shit forever, Plisetsky_ — when Otabek speaks again. “I asked you.” His voice is still quiet, inflectionless. “About Viktor and Katsuki.”

Yuri remembers. It was around Nationals, when the pig had to be in Japan and Viktor was being extra insufferable about everything because of it; Otabek had paused Yuri mid-rant — uncharacteristic, which is why it sticks in Yuri’s memory — and asked why exactly he was so upset about their weird codependent pseudo-marriage.

He had asked, “Is it gross because they’re gay?”

“What? No,” Yuri’d answered. “It’s gross because it’s Viktor.” Otabek had nodded, seeming satisfied, and the conversation had moved on.

Yuri remembers, and tries to puzzle out what the fuck relevance that has, when understanding settles over him like a pall. “Oh.” Fuck. “Otabek.” The panic is washed in horror. Could Otabek really think —? “I don’t give a shit about that,” Yuri says, as forceful as he can be without grabbing Otabek’s leather lapels and shaking him. Otabek doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, his mouth a stark line cut through the side of his face. “I don’t care,” Yuri insists, desperation steeping his tone. “I just. I didn’t _know.”_

He doesn’t know how to explain: Leo had known, and Yuri hadn’t. There are who-knows-how-many important things in Otabek’s life that he’s shared with other people and not with Yuri; there are who-knows-how-many people out there who might know Yuri’s best friend better than he does. That was the source of the sick vertigo feeling of betrayal that had flooded him and left him gasping, and there’s no way to explain it because _it’s totally fucking irrational._

His best friend just came out to him, trusting that it wouldn’t be a big deal, and Yuri acted offended about it. There _is_ no explanation for that, except that Yuri’s an asshole.

Faced with this dearth of explanation, Otabek _hm_ s _._ Which could mean _fucking anything,_ from “I understand your point of view and need time to formulate a response” to “You’re so full of shit it’s not worth using real words to talk to you,” the possibilities of the Altin _Hm_ ™ are limitless, and Yuri doesn’t get a chance to ask before they reach the hotel.

The lobby is populated with staff and with a handful of overeager reporters looking for pre-competition fluff; they get nothing from Otabek and Yuri except the Stone Wall of Utter Indifference (another versatile Altin trademark) and a few rude gestures. Yuri doesn’t feel safe to say anything until they are in the elevator and it’s moving, and then… well. What do you say when you’ve fucked things up with one of the only people in the world who matters?

“I’m sorry,” Yuri whispers, hoarse against the soft elevator music. He clears his throat and tries again, more audibly. “I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I don’t — I was just… surprised.”

Otabek is leaning into the corner. He’s angled away from Yuri; Yuri doesn’t know if it’s intentional. His mouth looks less harsh than it did earlier, but the eyebrows are still wound tight. With his eyes closed, he releases a long breath, his shoulders soften half a degree. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.” He sounds wary, and tired. But he’s using words again, full sentences even. “It’s not a secret. I wasn’t … hiding it from you.” Eyes open, frowning at the fake marble floor. “It never came up.” He glances up, dark eyes just touching Yuri for a moment. “You don’t talk about… dating, or anything.”

Another statement that is just a statement, no ulterior motive, but it still puts Yuri’s back up. “Nothing to say,” he growls.

Yuri holds on to that shred of reflexive, defensive annoyance, because it’s easier than the turbulent mess of other emotions that have been knocking him around all evening. It gets him through the elevator ride, and through the tense moment when the door opens at his floor and Yuri steps out and Otabek _doesn’t move_ until Yuri glares at him. In the soft-carpeted hallway, anxiety bubbling up again, Yuri takes a deep breath and decides that turnabout is fair play. “I think I don’t like anyone.”

Silence. Yuri’s shoulders itch from not being able to see Otabek behind him. “Like, girls, guys, no one.”

Otabek, that motherfucker, _hm_ s. Yuri entertains a brief but intense desire to throw him out a window. “Whatever. It’s bullshit.” He pulls out his keycard, jabs it violently at the door. “Just distraction. Makes people act like idiots.”

The door opens, and this is the moment: if things are going to be irrevocably weird, this is the moment where Yuri can slam the door in Otabek’s face and cut his losses on this terrible fucking day. So, one hand clenched on the door’s handle, Yuri turns and looks at him.

His head tilts. “That’s fair,” he says, soft and thoughtful. No matter what, he always takes Yuri seriously.

Otabek’s calm assurance just spikes Yuri’s temper; he’s all built-up tension, needing an outlet. “You know, literally everyone I’ve tried saying that to,” he snarls, “has told me ‘oh Yuratchka, you just haven’t met the right person yet.’” The mocking, needling tone comes out more bitter than he’d meant, but he can’t hold back. “‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ like I’m a fucking baby.”

Otabek shrugs one shoulder. His eyes are solemn. “You will or you won’t.” The eyebrows draw in, just a bit. “It isn’t really anyone else’s business.”

… _oh._ That sinks through Yuri’s brain like the cornerstone that lets every other jumbled piece settle neatly into place.

Otabek doesn’t talk about personal shit. Yuri hasn’t figured out if he’s secretive, or shy, or if it just doesn’t occur to him; he can hold forth for hours about music theory, club culture on various continents, engine specs or whatever weird books he’s read lately, but they’d been talking for weeks with no mention of a roommate until she walked through the background of a Skype call and shocked Yuri almost out of his chair. Turns out she’s Otabek’s older sister; turns out he has at least one sibling. That’s how Otabek is. “Not anyone else’s business” is one of his basic organizing principles.

That he told Yuri — chose to, freely, not just because Yuri happened to be there when Otabek needed help or whatever — means more than a statement of information.

Yuri mulls it over as they crowd together on his hotel bedspread, passing the laptop back and forth, taking turns showing each other cat videos or music or memes or outlandish fan sites or — Tuvan throat singing? “Your passion for weird central Asian shit, Otabek—” “Technically, they’re Russian. And it’s _cool.”_ — until it’s late and Otabek has mostly stopped reflexively tensing whenever Yuri moves. Possibly because of exhaustion. As Otabek stands and stretches and starts to gather his jacket and scarf and shoes, Yuri pulls his own spine soldier-straight and says, “Hey.”

Reflex check: still in effect. Frozen with his second foot only half shoved into its shoe, he turns his head. Yuri thinks this could be the imperturbable Altin version of “apprehensive.”

Yuri fidgets, awkward, but he can’t just let the day end like this. He wants things to be easy between them. Like before he fucked it up. “Thanks,” he eventually manages. “For telling me.”

Otabek blinks. He gets his foot into the shoe and straightens up. “It’s not a secret,” he says, again.

Right: no secret, a totally open fact that no one knows and he never mentions. Yuri resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I know, but. You obviously don’t like talking about that stuff — personal stuff — so. Thanks. For … trusting me with it. I guess.” _Fuck_ this is embarrassing. How do normal people deal with emotions? Yuri will never know; he hides behind his hair until he no longer feels like his face is on fire.

When he’s calmed his own mortification enough to look at Otabek again, he is reminded of the reason this whole fucking mess started. Otabek is watching him and smiling, that perfect smile that transmutes his entire demeanor, small and warm and _real._ Otabek is the only person Yuri knows who never smiles unless he means it. “We’re friends, right?”

The way Otabek says it, like he’s simultaneously affirming and explaining some fundamental law of the universe. Like it’s the one important fact on which everything else rests. Yuri grins his relief. “Yeah.”

He pulls on his jacket, drapes the scarf loosely. The smile lingers in traces. “Good night, Yura.” The door closes softly behind him.

 

 

[22:47]

_so I’m not mad but_

_“it never came up” is a bullshit excuse jsyk_

_could have brought it up any time_

> _Didn’t seem relevant_
> 
> _I wasn’t sure what you’d think_

_you’re an idiot_

_i've known Viktor’s gay ass since I was 10_

_you can’t shock me_

> _You hate Viktor_

_not because he’s gay!!!!!_

> _Hard to tell_

_ugh fuck off_

_i told you that_

_when you asked_  

> _Let me count the times you’ve called him &/or Katsuki disgusting_
> 
> _Hold on could take a while_

_fUCK OFF_

_i say that about EVERYONE’s gross pda_

_mila, georgi_

_whatever freaky praying mantis thing lilia & yakov are doing_ 

> _That’s a mental image_

_exACTLY_

> _157 times btw on this chat thread_
> 
> _Lower than I expected_

_fffffff_

_my point is: you could have told me_

_i’m sorry if i made you think otherwise_

> _No_
> 
> _Keeping quiet is a habit, hard to break. That’s all_
> 
> _And it’s not relevant_

_it’s important_

_i want to know_  

> _Ok_
> 
> _It’s possible to be queer and not talk about it all the time though_

_omg can you please tell viktor that_

 

[00:14]

 

_hey_

_since when do you call me yura_

 


	2. Mila gives the best advice.

St Petersburg — April

“So.” He clatters into a seat at the chintzy canteen table with rather more force than necessary. “I thought you could help me figure out this Leo thing.”

Mila has the most normal social life of anyone Yuri knows. She’s the one, of anyone, who’s likely to have useful advice about that weird sick betrayed feeling that had almost fucked up his only real friendship. Namely, how to _never do it again_.

She snorts gracelessly around a mouthful of salad. “Yeah, it sounds like you were acting super weird.”

Yuri remembers, too late, that Mila is a totally unhelpful devil woman whom he despises. And she is, obviously, correct. He grits his teeth around the rude things that he can’t say because he still needs her stupid advice.

“Seriously though, what’s the problem?” she says between bites. “So your Otabek is friends with some American boy. What’s wrong with that?”

“He’s not _my_ Otabek,” Yuri grumbles, pulling a slightly squashed energy bar out of his pocket and fiddling with the wrapper. She’s asking questions that he doesn’t have answers to.

There’s nothing wrong with Otabek having other friends. Of course he does. It only makes sense — he’s fucking cool, anyone would want to be his friend. There are probably dozens of people, all over the world, whom he’s whisked off to terrace art gardens and solemnly proposed friendship to, with the sun low and golden making it feel like destiny. He probably does that shit all the time. A normal Wednesday for Otabek.

Why does that thought make him want to tear someone’s hair out?

Mila is watching him a little too closely. He doesn’t like her smirk. “Maybe that’s the problem.” She sounds conniving and smug, which he likes even less.

“What is that supposed to mean, hag?”

Before she can answer, Georgi drifts by. “What are we talking about?”

Almost at the same moment as Yuri spits out “None of your fucking business, witch boy,” Mila tousles Yuri’s hair and coos “Poor only child never learned how to share his toys.”

“I didn’t have toys,” Yuri growls, pushing Mila’s hand away. “I had _knives.”_ He played in the kitchen with Grandad more than he ever did with other kids. And skates totally count. Knife shoes.

Yuri glares balefully until Georgi crosses himself and moves away. Fucking Carabosse is the last person Yuri wants to discuss any of this with. He probably wouldn’t see any problem. He would tell Yuri to shut Otabek away in a tower somewhere and keep the key in a locket next to his heart, which, in addition to being _fucking crazy,_ is getting the wrong idea about them. Besides the fact that Otabek is hilariously ill-suited for the role of captive princess — imagine his shoulders busting out of some frilly gown — they aren’t like that. Yuri’s not like that. Just the notion that he could be thinking along the same lines as Georgi Creepy-As-Fuck-Possessive-Stalker-Ass Popovich makes Yuri want to die. And vomit. Die from excessive vomit.

Mila thankfully draws him out of thoughts of death-by-vomit. “You know that friendship isn’t a limited resource, right? It’s not zero-sum. People can have more than one friend.”

He almost retorts _“I_ don’t,” but he doesn’t want her fucking mockery, or pity.

_I thought we were alike, that’s all,_ echoes through his head like a broken promise _._ But Yuri has known from the start that they’re different. Otabek is way cooler than he is. He has a life and skills outside of skating. He has other loyalties, other passions. Other friends.

Yuri huffs, blowing a loose strand of hair out of his face. “I didn’t think he talked to other people,” he offers lamely. Like he was just surprised.

“So?” Mila cuts past his bullshit as easily as stabbing her fork through lettuce. He both hates her sharp discernment and knows it’s the reason she’s worth asking for advice. “He does. So what?”

Fuck, this is impossible. He can’t explain because he doesn’t understand. In order to understand, he needs advice. He can’t get advice until he can explain. He groans and leans back in his seat, peeling the energy bar and taking a big bite to give himself time.

Yuri’s never had a real friend before. There’s no one else in the world like Otabek. It rankles because it feels uneven — unbalanced — because to Otabek, Yuri is just one of many.

“He’s … important,” Yuri admits, staring down at his own hands and the unappetizing remnants of the bar. “I think, to him, I’m maybe not that important.”

The most indelicate snort meets him from across the table. When he looks up, Mila is dabbing salad dressing from the corner of her mouth primly. “I don’t think _that’s_ true.”

He scowls. “Why not?”

“Because I have eyes, baby tiger.” Eyes that narrow in on him like lasers, before going wide and bright with mischief. “Maybe he just doesn’t talk to other people when _you’re_ around, Yuratchka,” she purrs.

Panic drips cold through his gut. “What, like I’m holding him back?”

She blinks. “What?”

It makes a sick sort of sense. “He knows I hate people. So he doesn’t talk to other people while I’m around. I’m keeping him away from his real friends.” From normal people who don’t freak out if he smiles at someone else, probably. God, he’s a terrible friend. _“Mila.”_ She was supposed to be _helping._ He feels worse than ever now.

“Oh, Yuri.” Her expression is indecipherable, like she’s stuck between two strong and contradictory impulses. She reaches out to gently hold his face in her hands. “Yuri, Yuri, Yuri.” Slowly, she starts to squish his cheeks forward, inward, until his lips pucker and part. He casts the most murderous glare he can manage. She pinches his cheeks. “You are so dumb, it’s _adorable.”_ He swats her hands away with a snarl; she starts to laugh.

“Awful, ugly, old hag!” He shoots to his feet, almost kicking his chair over, and slaps his palms down on the table. “Do you have _anything_ useful to say?”

When she’s stopped laughing — it takes a while, damn her — she wipes a beaded tear from the corner of her eye, and looks him over consideringly. “You know, I don’t think I do.” He seethes, but she doesn’t let him interrupt. “I don’t think I can translate into something you would understand, kitten. Just.” She sighs, and flips a switch, like in practice when she’s decided to stop fucking around and nail her next run-through. Focused, serious. “Don’t freak yourself out so much. He _is_ your friend, regardless of anyone else.” A hint of a smile sneaks back onto her face when she says, “Try not to be too crazy.”

He growls wordless frustration, making her laugh again. “Thanks for _absolutely nothing,_ hag.”

“Have you considered talking to him about it?” she calls to him as he’s leaving. He flips her off over his shoulder. _Disgusting._ He’s never asking Mila for advice again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (why are they all having lunch at the canteen in the off-season? don't think too hard about it :p )

**Author's Note:**

> I have been staring at this for so long that I can't tell whether I hate it or not. (Let me know in comments whether you hate it or not.) Envisioned as part one of a series, which I will likely continue -- I have several other parts in various stages of written/planned, but not in order, so no idea how long before/if I update again.  
> Thanks for reading. I hope it was worth your time.


End file.
